


Wayne Wenny + Augustus Gibson

by Rollingstone



Category: Original Work
Genre: Best Friends, Bromance, Fiction, Friendship, Great Depression, Guitar, a little bit of, historical events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-26 19:57:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20395297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rollingstone/pseuds/Rollingstone
Summary: "During the months in which my back recuperated and my mother took me to the town for my semi-monthly check ups, I befriended a ruffled boy with a not-quit-tuned-guitar. As my mother caught up with the other ladies in the town I’d sit nestled carefully in a chair (cautious of my back) as the boy plucked demented tunes on his humbled guitar. It was my fourth visit into town when he finally asked my name; Augustus Gibson, and I his; Wayne Wenny."Augustus Gibson grows up through the great depression.





	Wayne Wenny + Augustus Gibson

I was raised to be a man at the tender age of four. My father gave me a bucket and sent me in to the endless fields to pick weeds out between the corn. When I was five my skin had lost its velvety white colour and my arms showing signs of work. 

When I was six I meet Sally Sue Sadberry, my first love and my first kiss, with gleaming black hair and creamy chocolate skin, eyes like black marbles and lips like rose buds; she was perfect in every way. My father thought differently; when he sent me out to the fields and instead saw me with Sally Sue Sadberry an hour latter he sent my Sally Sue Sadberry away for good and told me that the fields had a billion ears and would know if I talked to that girl again. I never spoke to her again, but I certainly never stopped thinking about her.

When I was seven my father took way my bucket and gave me a barrel, accompanying me to the fields to pick corn instead of weeds. At the age of eight my mother, bless her gentle soul, intervened and insisted I learnt how to write and read, the argument that resounded through the house that night weighted guiltily on my heart for week afterwards. When I was nine my mother decided a job at the local bakery would be beneficial to their bank accounts. My reading and writing was sufficient, and along with deeming my literary skill sufficient my father also deemed my back robust enough to handle the grueling work of wielding a hoe. 

For weeks I cried about the pains rippling up my spin, yet it wasn’t until I was ten that my back was crippled; when one day I fell down the stairs because my spin failed my mother called the local doctor, who then prescribed me bed rest and a routine of uncomfortable stretches. The argument between my father and the doctor is one I’d treasure for weeks to come. 

During the months in which my back recuperated and my mother took me to the town for my semi-monthly check ups, I befriended a ruffled boy with a not-quit-tuned-guitar. As my mother caught up with the other ladies in the town I’d sit nestled carefully in a chair (cautious of my back) as the boy plucked demented tunes on his humbled guitar. It was my fourth visit into town when he finally asked my name; Augustus Gibson, and I his; Wayne Wenny. It was also that day Wayne Wenny handed me his guitar and told me to play something. I sat there awkwardly, cocooned in the tight chair with the guitar rest more on the chairs arms then my thighs, my chin resting on its dark body, making my back strain uncomfortably. I put my fingers on the strings in no particularly ordered pattern and strummed a horrid sound; Wenny laughed at my miserable expense; Wenny had gotten one of the old coloured folks to teach him a few tricks on his stringed lady. The man, as Wenny so gracefully put it, lived in a dump, but when Wenny pointed it out to me on one of our rare walk I thought the description of rustic and historic seemed to better match the small cottage. Wenny had shrugged and promised he’d teach me everything the old man taught him anyhow, and he kept true for as long as he could. 

About seven months after my tumble I turned eleven, and my doctor allowed my father to work me limited hours, and thankfully my father heeded the doctor’s instructions. I figured the threat of my healing process being delayed or set back keep my father from working me like a mule. My back was healing rather well, the doctor had explained, however he had muttered his concerns to my mother of my lungs, claiming to have heard a distant wheezing upon our last check up. He abolished that there was nothing to be done about it, but to be cautious of labours work and the seasons in which the wind ruled the land. 

My visits continued to town and Wenny continued to teach me all he could remember from the withered coloured folk, and suddenly I wasn’t going to town just to meet my doctor for check ups. I found myself offering my dad to ride Bessy into town to pick up hay barrels in order to catch an hour of guitar and companionship with Wenny (a form of transportation that sent thrills of pain through my spine). When my father sold Bessy to a traveling horse racer my trips were put on a momentary hiatus. Then a terribly long two weeks later, when I turned twelve, the yearning for my friend sparked my creativity and I began asking my mom to accompany her to town when she went to work at the town bakery, and even asked to go to church services in town when Wenny mentioned he attended the morning services with his family; I did everything I could to see my friend and play that guitar. 

When I was thirteen my doctor deemed my back good enough. I walked out of his office with my eyes burning pathetically, I recognised my friendship with Wenny would come to an abrupt halt. Wenny found me sulking miserably on the deck of my doctor’s porch, his guitar strapped on behind his back, he sat beside me in silent understanding; it was the first silence between us since we’d meet. My heart ached for what I was going to lose. 

Two weeks later Wenny showed up at my door and asked my father if he could work in his fields for a penny a month; my father was dumbfounded, but that wasn’t exactly hard to accomplish. I, on the other hand, couldn’t stop smiling for the whole week; after all I’d be seeing my mate every few days now! It didn’t occur to me for a few weeks that Wenny was working double time now, seeing as he still had to tend to his own farm. With the new establishment of my friend in such close accompaniment I was in a constant ecstasy of happiness, it must have been the happiness that blinded me from the growing look of haggardness on my friends being; it was only when Wenny fell asleep on a high pile of hay and unsold harvest while I played guitar that I saw the exhaustion carved into his face. The next time Wenny came to the house I made him bring his guitar into the field and got him to play while I did both our jobs. Wenny was to grateful to protest. 

I, of course, still made the effort to visit Wenny on trips to town, but they were less urgent, and became fewer as the months of Wenny ‘working’ for my father drew on. The occasion of going to church offered the opportunity for Wenny and I to run off and play on his farm for a change, but the times I visited his house could be counted on one hand. Wenny’s family, as lovely as they where, didn’t have the extras around the house that I took for granted at my own, but then again, my family didn’t have six mouths to feed; another reason Wenny preferred to stay away from his home. Plus, Wenny’s farm had grasshoppers, and put me in a bathtub full of spider, but put me in a bed with a grasshopper and I’ll never sleep in it again. But there was something else, there where times Wenny came to me with a scared reflection in his eyes and told me of the hushed discussions he eased from behind his parents closed door, talk of not enough money, and stresses of further stock plummeting, worries of the next harvest and decaying crops. We didn’t fully understand it at the time, at least I didn’t. The only way I could sympathise with Wenny’s concerns where that my father had been trying to sell a good slice of our farm, the side in which we grown our wheat each year.

Wenny had snatch a tabloid from his parent’s bed side one morning and had raced to my house, flushed and frantic. Broadsheets where so common they were almost a nuisance, strewn across the streets on a windy day and making a mess; but Tabloids were rare here, with fancy headings and a weightier feel, you always knew there was something worthwhile in its pages, even as a kid. Tabloids usually flaunted an exciting and brave photograph, like the photo I’d seen when my parents emptied out their bank accounts, but todays didn’t; a grand display of men in hats and long coats stood before a respected bank each being turned away with dismay. I felt rebuked, confused, naïve, I turned to Wenny for explanation and he turned to read the passage ‘The Wall Street Crash Domino Effect’, talking of a New York stock crash (and I though stock a delicious soup base). They seemed to be blaming it all on low wages and unemployment, and thus a ripple effect of no one spending money and prices of merchandise plummeting, but what it all meant, I didn’t know. 

On a rather dry Sunday morning, the air without a drop of rain in it, Wenny and I had been sent to church on our own, however with no one guiding us we had tumbled off course and found our way to Old Dan’s Record Shop (we figured God would forgive us for losing our way to the holy house.) Our town was always a little tardy in getting the newest releases, especially lately as the record shelves were barer then they’d ever been, but boy, Wenny and I couldn’t have cared the least when we saw the Black Bottom Stomp. Its sleeve was a bright joyful yellow with a picture of Jelly Roll Morton looking rightfully pretty. Old Dan was chatting up a blushing blond lady, so I had no problem slipping the vinyl into my trousers other then that my gate was a little queer. When Old Dan looked up to see Wenny and I mischievously walking out, well than we had a problem. His inquisition gaze held me frozen and my breath held as he questioned my waddle, I was sure I was in for a thrashing of the century. Wenny suddenly stepped forward explain how I’d fallen where it hurt the most; I reddened in mortification yet couldn’t help sigh in relief at Wenny’s momentary geniuses. Old Dan had narrowed his eyes before telling us to get lost. My heart thundering, I sagged with the belief that we were safe. 

Wenny gave me a real good ear lashing all the way back to my house until I suddenly turned on him and asked why he was such a good fibber, he was suddenly quiet. However, our scrape bleed away as I play our newly obtained record, listening to the jazzy jumps of the instruments. We sat there in my living room listening, watching the turntable twirled out the sounds, taking turns resetting the needle. I listened long after Wenny had to return home. I reckon I would’ve never stop listening to that Stomp had my father not came into the house and struck me with a furious glare. I was right, I was in for a beating of the century, but when my mother asked sadly if I regretted what I’d done I found my head nodding and only my heart regretting getting caught. That night as I lay in bed my mother explained in a hesitant and kind voice that money was a precious thing right now, and that stealing from a store, especially a small, local dependant store like Old Dan’s could be the end of it. I asked if Old Dan’s store was going to close because he was poor, but my mother shook her head, saying that in away we were all poor. Even us? Even us. 

At fourteen my visits to town officially stopped when my father told me to stay out of it, and with Wenny being over at my home most of the time and mothers employers letting her go, I didn’t have a real reason to defy my fathers wishes. Well besides Joeys candy shop, but their candy had been less exciting and plentiful, and they where closing shop and moving out of town anyways. However even then, as the weeks blurred by, I found we had less money for sweets and fruits, and only the funds to make use of the piles of wheat in our barn. I didn’t understand why we didn’t sell the wheat like we had year after year. I think Wenny did though, when I ranted to him about the illogicities of it, he blabbered about how it wasn’t worth much now, I told him that was rubbish, that it had been worth plenty before. I didn’t understand that it was worth so much more then before, yet no one had the money to afford its worth. 

While Wenny only spoke of farm problems and altogether adult problem occasionally, he avidly praised me for my progression on the guitar. As Wenny put it, my guitar playing was progressing like a freight train on fire, though I’m not sure I quit got the expression, I understood that I was doing well. I was fifteen now, a right and proper age, and I began to understand music was more the pretty or sad sounds. There were days in which Wenny and I would hide out in the barn for the whole night, strumming sounds into real music, music we thought meant something; other times strumming nothing but ruckus, and others goofing off, yet then others just in silence. One day my father gave me a swiss army knife, told me that all men should have a weapon of some sorts, but I saw it as something that I could carve a stick with; Wenny thought of something else we could carve. That evening Wenny and I carved “Wayne Wenny + Augustus Gibson” into the darkly stained wood of the guitar, mindless of the damage we cause to the finish. Wenny had proudly proclaimed that it was officially both of ours, a proclamation I held dearly. 

However, along with the understanding of music, the age of fifteen brought a greater understanding of the whirlwind of trouble in the cities. Wenny and I had made a habit of snatching tabloids whenever they came to either of our houses, as well as the occasional broadsheet. We sat in my barn one afternoon, Wenny plucking a tune out of our guitar while I flipped through a broad sheet, coming across a rather angry article, I read it aloud to Wenny, narrating a furious writers opinion on R.B Bennet. It ranted about his inefficiencies and indecisiveness and quoted the times in which he announced that the jobless needed to find their own jobs and that their care was a local and provincial responsibility. I raised my eyebrow at Wenny. Wasn’t this man our new prime minister? Wasn’t he supposed to take care of country wide problems? And if this article was true, and a large population of the country was jobless; well wasn’t that his problem then? It wasn’t the last article I would read to Wenny (I was a better reader) that would ridicule our latest prime minister. On another account a tabloid showed a picture of horses pulling cars, the car of the photos interest had ‘Bennet Buggy’ written boldly on it’s side, the article had explained that without jobs people couldn’t afford gasoline, and thus couldn’t afford to run their cars. Between reading the papers and hearing our parents whispered voice it was apparent something terrible was happening, however we’d yet to fully understand it.

Wenny came on a particularly nice day, the sun was slightly subdued, radiating warmth instead of drought and death; yet Wenny didn’t share the enthusiasm of the pleasant weather, or the fact that it’d make my days work a load easier. My father had cut down on my work, only sending me to closet fields, seeming to be much more reserved then he had been, less enthusiastic about the harvest then in the years before, but I wasn’t going to complain about a pleasant day. As I plucked corn routinely from its stalk I was basked in a somber tune, and near the end of our days work I sat on a stump and watched the mournful expression on Wenny’s face as he caressed the guitar, it stirred a dust devil of emotion in my chest and the vulnerability almost made me feel uncomfortable. That day we sat under an old tree; that day only Wenny played. When he left, Wenny embraced me in strong wiry arms for far too long. When Wenny left there were tears in his eyes. 

When Wenny left there where tears in my eyes too. 

And then a week passed.

And another.

And then another. 

When my eyes became sleepless with stress and depression I ran out of my house and to our porch, unheeding my fathers calls as I raced down the road that lead to the town. I was sweating and breathless when I got to Wenny’s cozy home, but the home I saw was not Wenny’s, not any more. I’d visited Wenny’s house on the occasions that I managed to drag my faithless folks to church, and the bustling house was colourful and lively, full of hope and love and union; this house was a desolated shell, a whisper of greys and of fading memory’s. Its farm that had once stood proud and glorious was akin to a battle field, its soil turned to dust and the reminisces of crops poking out like twigs, fruitless. Hopelessness drenched me; I shut my eye against the sign hanging on the door, shaking my head. I stumbled through the dark town guided by the faint street light in the town center. I came to a small cottage with colourless wood, so dead looking that it matched the colourlessness of a blind mans eyes. The scattered porch whined under my weight and I pounded on the door with a desperation that jumped from my core and bubbled in my chest, crawling out of my throat as a choked sob when I called for an answer. The door swung open and a dark, weather face looked back at me with anger. The man scrutinized me for a moment, seeing something in me I didn’t want to see myself, and the anger melted into understanding. He opened his door for me and as I entered the sight of Wenny’s guitar had me shaking my head in denial, but the feeling of desolation and confinement confirmed my fears. The man muttered his sentiment and handed me Wenny’s guitar. I took it by the neck and held it close to my body, tracing our names on the side of it. The man offered me a drink before I left.

I trudge my way through the town; numb, confused, angry, hurt and scared. I looked at the scattered houses surrounding me, some like Wenny’s, with windows boarded up and for sale signs on them, yet already abandon, and fewer like mine. Stores I’d visited with Wenny had signs declaring that they were closed, and yet the locks on the doors and the planks of wood in the glass suggested they wouldn’t be reopening. Even the bank that uses to bustle with activity looked unused and unprosperous. Suddenly the oppressing darkness of night seemed to have seeped into every crevice of this diminishing town, staining its once bright streets with its inky blackness. 

When I returned home in the wee hours my tears had dried and my face was stone. My mother was the only one with the power to save me from that beating when my father saw me with a guitar in my arms. I lay with Wenny’s guitar in my arms that night, feeling cold and vulnerable to the worlds cruelty. I listen to my parent’s anxious murmurs of finances and droughts and down spiraling and loss, and for the first time in a very long time I felt bitter and angry with the world I lived in. For the first time in my life I wasn’t blind to the chaos and wreckage that had accumulated around me. In the absence of joy and life, I saw the misery and death surrounding me. 

My mother asked me about my change in demeanor, but I didn’t burden her with it, she wouldn’t understand the bond between Wenny and I, how could she? However, it wasn’t only Wenny’s departure that had begun to weight my heart; without my dear friend to act as a shield from the terror around me I began to understand more then I’d have ever liked to of just what the newspapers were speaking about. The economic crash in the city and now how it affected us, in ways I should have seen had I not been dazed in childishness. Suddenly the stacks of unsold harvest in our barn began to make sense. The abrupt selling of Bessy our horse, and the selling of half our farm. The departure of Wenny and his family. The wreckage of his farm. Alas, the clarity of the situation offered me no solace, it only made me angrier. Angry that I could stop it, angry that I couldn’t help Wenny, that I was so blind that I couldn’t see what he was going through and couldn’t give back the comfort he’d given me. 

It didn’t rain much when Wenny was here, but it didn’t rain at all when he left. My father and I harvested half the fields before he turned away to walk back to the house. I shouted at him in confusion, exclaiming that we still had the rest of the fields to go, but he kept walking away. Shaking my head in anger I roughly broke through the thick stalks to start on the other fields. Understanding poured through me like Alaskan water when I gazed upon the other fields. The once healthy green stalks were welted and sagging under the suns harsh glower. I stumbled towards the fields, bending down to scoop up a handful of black dust. My breath hitched at the horrific sense of Déjà vu. 

With the healthy stalks harvested and the wheat already devoured by nature, the fields gave away to the universe. I watched day by day as the drought continued to suck the fields of its richness and fertility. I sat on my porch and watched as the dust was whisked way by the gentle winds, carrying away into the promise-less land. I listened to my father scoff about R.B Bennett’s ‘New Deal.’ From what id gathered from my fathers cynical word, the prime minister, if you will, had tried to meet the peoples needs in a pathetic attempt to ease the hunger for work; his solution was to build ‘Relief Camps’ for single men, however from what id gather from my father they were hardly reasonable, working like mules for housing and food instead of a reasonable wage. My father laughed when he read that the men working in the camps had gone on strike and protest, my father exclaiming that a proper program of reasonable work and wage need to be established. My mother chastised him, abiding that the poor man was doing the best he could. I heard my father spit on the floor, and my mothers gasp, the man is hardly poor, I heard my father mutter. 

I drew the shape of a guitar into the dust; perhaps Bennett could send me twenty shinny dollars for a new guitar. That’s all there was in this land now; dust and sad reminisces of once fluorescing crops. I hadn’t had the courage to play our guitar since Wenny moved away, but boy did I long for it. I almost had half the mind to go grab it when a grasshopper jumped onto my stick. I shrivelled away from it, repulsed. I flung it off my stick and crushed it into the dust, my lips upturned in satisfaction when I remove my booted foot and found it twitching its crushed body. Serves the nasty little creep right. When I woke up the next day I believed I had cursed the land. I was awakened at the first ray of golden light to the aching sound of a billion rusty hinges; I tugged on my sock and walked onto the porch rubbing my eyes tiredly, but when my eyes feel on the land before me I found every sweet lick of sleep leave me. The ground was plagued with grasshoppers, all turned silent in the wake of a threatening intruder. I was petrified, feeling as though they were on me, and I stumble back into the house locking the door. I waited twitching paranoid in the kitchen until my mother and father woke, watching that as the sun rose above the straight land the grasshoppers began to jump flying heights, some throwing themselves at the window. When they saw my wakefulness, I waved to the suddenly dangerous out door.

When I was sixteen the storm hit. I had been carving up a stick on the porch of our house on an oddly windy day, humming a song Wenny had taught me. It was the sound of a whistling winding and the scattering of earth being uplifted that made me turn my eyes up ward from my spear. My body froze; my heart, my lungs, my hands turned to stone. A black cloud stretched across the horizon, tumbling towards me in graduating speed. Its depths twisted and snarled like the church had described a demon would, devouring everything its greedy grains could grab and shredding it, startling the earth and strengthening its power of obliteration. I was faced with the devil himself and terror made me compliant to my fate. 

Hands grabbed me and jerked my body toward the door, a voice yelling in my ear masked by the howling wind. I was hastily thrown to the side, my hands roughly greeting the old houses splintered floors. I twisted around with terror in my eyes, pleading my father for comfort that would condemn him as a liar. He locked the door, grabbing the fabric of my shirt and hauled me to my shaking feet, thrusting thick boards of wood into my arms and disappearing, returning with a bucket of rusty nails and a hammer. He grabbed a plank from my arms and began to hammer it to the doors cracks. I stumbled backwards my back hitting the wall. My mother rushed to the windows, fighting against the wind to close them, proceeding to secure blankets tightly over the windows with nails from my father. The pounding of the hurried hammer harmonised with my heart as it thrashed against my ribs like a caged beast. The planks of wood tumble from my arms and I slid to the floor, my breathing shallowing and the frantic scene unfolding before me becoming hazer with each pant. My vision evaporated as particles of dust burst into the room like black flour and the roar of a thousand screams assaulted my ears. 

When I woke it felt as though I was suspended. Total darkness enveloped me, and my ears ran from serine silence. I blinked my heavy eye it made no difference it the lighting of the room. i blinked my eyes again; they felt sticky, but when I ran my hand over them they were sore. I listened carefully, straining my ears until I heard the choir of a billion screaming insects, the high pitch screeching aching in my ears. I coughed heavily, and my body was suddenly wracked with a terrible fit of convulsions stemming from my lungs. I fumbled around until my hand meet the edge of my dresser and I began to tap my palm over the surface looking for a pack of match’s and my lamp. The once smooth oak wood felt gritty and my hand slide over its surface with a brittle roll, when feeling the bristle of the striker I grabbed the box and lite a match to find my lamp. The illumination of the lightning bug sized flame casted a dancing shadow on a thin layer of sand covering the oak. Alarmed I grabbed the oil lantern and dropped a fresh match into it. Light burst to life and the room was casted in a slow-motion moment. Like a thick haze, particles of dust floated and danced around through the air; cast in the warm light of a flame the scene could have be peaceful, but the thickness of the air and the heavy, dirty feeling clung to my body made the scene horrific and suspenseful instead.

I swung my feet over the side of my bed, observing with dismay as a thick layer of dust uprooted and created a dusty nebula around my feet. Every step I took towards the window new dust unsettled from the floor and joined the air, weighing down my lungs more so then it already had. I coughed into my elbow, and gently looked through the side of the blanket blocking my window; a ravaging war of dust and sand and all else wept away by the storm battled ferociously in all directions creating a mass that obscured the heavens and the earth with its dry dark grains. I had closed my eyes, prying to the God Wenny trusted, that this was just a passing dream, a restless slumber, a nightmare and nothing more. 

I had become accustomed to setting the dishes up-side-down on the dinning table; to keep the dust off them, that is. And the almost omnipresent pit-pattering, swish-swash strokes of my mother sweeping away the dust had just become another constant in the day. I stayed clear of my room, were although the dust was the finest and scarcest, I found my self brooding and doubting things in life that shouldn’t be so heavily worried upon, and more times then not I caught my mind wandering into the Shangri-La of Wenny’s memories. I certainly wasn’t going to seek out my father for company and comfort; every time I scurried past my father, his back was slumped, and his face hooded in a dark storm of thought, an occupation I could now relate to and wanted nothing to do with. Instead I found myself shadowing my mother most days, helping her with dishes, cooking, dust (which needed to be done almost hourly). One of the windows busted open one morning and in an instant the house was polluted with the earth hundreds of demanding farmers had fought to tame. While my father worked on sealing the window, my mother had held me down as my body was wracked with strangulating coughs, my body aching as I hacked out phlegm. My mothers panicked hands had fought to hold my body up as I gasped and wheezed for oxygen, my body trembling with the effort. It was my father that had straighten my arched back and positioned me to allow air to squeeze it way into my lungs. 

I woke in my bed, sweating and fevered, yet the room was ice cold and I felt as though I’d been plunged into the rocky mountain glaciers. I groaned from the rolls of nausea the poltergeist in my stomach was causing, clutching the thin blanket to ground me from the pain; but as a grand ocean wave of nausea crashed down upon my I couldn’t stop myself from rolling to my side and spewing last night corn onto my bedroom floor. My mother came bursting through my door as I started to sob, a pathetic wet whimper that you’d hear from a restless infant. As my mother shushed me and tried to comfort me the best she could I caught my father looming in the door way with the eyes of a troubled solider. I had closed my eyes and prayed to the God Wenny had trusted, prying for golden slumbers, praying for the happier time with my dear Wenny, praying for golden slumbers.

I hadn’t touched our guitar in almost six months, but in the omnipresent darkness and the pain twisting within my body it offered to be my only sanctuary this past week. Playing our guitar has been like a breath of fresh air, even in times when it feels as though their no oxygen left in the room. playing it now I feel a heavy remorse at my neglection of it, in my cold regard of how it reminded me of someone I couldn’t have; but now in my sickness I realized that Wenny didn’t leave me the channel of our friendship for me to merely regret it, he gave it to me to remember him and to nurse our friendship through the music I create. I had sat strumming a gentle tune, one with memories not quite recognizable, and watched as the dust, illuminated by the fire lantern, danced in the air, stirred and wisped away each time I breath outed. I’ve watch them stir less each day as my breaths become weaker, my lungs losing the fight they once upon a time had; wenny and I didn’t sing often, but when we did be belted out the tunes with more strength then melody, the louder we sang the higher our spirits lifted. 

There’s been a slight quarter in the storm and my father has braved the storm in order to find the doctor, but as I lie here now I doubt he will be much use to me when they arrive. I feel drowsy, the pain almost feels distant now, like looking at a scene from the other side of the glass. I’m comfortably numb I suppose. My breath has almost stopped encouraging the dust to dance, but as a finish this piece of literature, this letter or biography or will of sort, I will put it to the side and play a happy tune on our guitar, thinking of Wenny until my mind no longer thinks and my breath no longer makes the dust dance.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading; drop your thoughts down in the comments.  
peace and love,  
Grace.


End file.
